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It seemed like a good time to check on the movement.
The boycott list came in the mail two weeks after I sent an e-mail asking to be added to Kansans for Life's rolls. I also received a form letter thanking me for my help and requesting a donation. Also included was a pocket version of the boycott list, cross-referenced by product types, that I could carry with me to keep from accidentally supporting abortion.
Folded into the papers was a fact sheet about Planned Parenthood in Kansas. Not content to list something as mundane as how many pregnancies are terminated each month, the yellow paper also told me that Planned Parenthood targets black babies, and sex education is a cover for promoting fornication.
The only thing that surprised me was the list of aborted fetal pieces that they said Planned Parenthood profited from. It was printed with ages and parts and prices, like a menu for gourmet cannibals. Eyeballs and spinal columns come cheap. If I really wanted to impress my friends, I needed to scratch together almost $1,000 for an 8-week-old brain (30 percent off if significantly fragmented). The budget-conscious could always settle for a $500 intact torso, minus the limbs.
I looked at my plastic grocery bag that was full of toiletries. Eventually it had all been too much for the wastebasket, and I needed a more pliable container. I hadn't even started on the clothing or the DVDs.
Could all this be true? If it was, could anyone live without paying into the corporate-abortion complex? Is Scott Roeder an embarrassment, or is he a martyr?
I'd start to understand better two months later on a golf course in Kansas.
It cost me $100 to enter the May 18 tournament at Painted Hills Golf Course in Kansas City, Kansas. That bought 18 holes and the knowledge that my check would support the KFL Education Foundation; the Grace Center Maternity Home; and Alexandra's House, a prenatal hospice in Kansas City, Missouri.
By the time I arrived, at 8 a.m., I'd already missed breakfast, and most players were picking out golf carts. There were a few dozen golfers, almost all middle-aged white men. Morning sunlight gleamed against their clean, beige golf bags.
When I checked in, I was handed a 1-gallon plastic bag full of used golf balls. An ichthus — the "Jesus fish" visible on many cars — had been drawn on each ball with what looked like Sharpie ink. As distinct as such a ball would be if I ever played golf again, at this event, with everyone using similarly marked balls, it just made finding my shot all the more confusing.
My partner was Dan. He had white hair and a soft voice, and if he didn't smile so often, he'd be a ringer for Dick Cheney.
"It's my first time on the course this year," he told me. "You'll have to bear with me. I'm not planning to play all 100 balls, if that's OK with you."
As we played and the dew soaked through my shoes and socks, Dan told me about his life. He spent his youth traveling with his wife, he told me, and he figured that he'd already used up his retirement. "We spent our time on the beach when we still looked good doing it," he said. I liked him.
Now that he wasn't working, he taught a Bible study group for people who had converted to Christianity late in life. He added that he avoided arguing with liberals as much as he expected any reasonable man could. He resented an interview he'd seen with President Obama in which the president said questioning when life began was above his pay grade. "If it's above your pay grade, maybe you shouldn't be making decisions about it," Dan said.